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Archive for the ‘PHOTOS’ Category

On a lunchtime walk Delia and I just took to enjoy the sunshine:

Topless on a dirt road. Those are SHADOWS on my face.

I really just want to spend all day outside in the sunshine, but there’s so much webmaster work to do! And napping . . .

Our wheelbarrow wants me to push it around!

The only thing that makes me glad I’m not outside is that for our entire walk the sounds of nature were overpowered by the sounds of helicopters and other aircraft. Seriously, a helicopter has been at it for around two hours or something.

I would say I think that kind of noise pollution is totally unacceptable, except that I need to practice accepting shit more instead of wondering who to call to complain about that B.S., fantasizing about informing everyone that we all NEED to get together on hating the fucking border patrol. Maybe it’s not even them. And I truly don’t need to know, which is hard for me to swallow, but still true.

So the time I spend today working and thinking is going to be on stuff that will actually make a difference to me and my loved ones. But wait!! It would totally make a difference in my life and others’ lives if I could stop all of the helicopter noises!! But oh yeah . . . I actually cannot personally stop all of the helicopter noises today so . . . reality check. I’d rather be masturbating.

Taken after my shower today, here are some of the red welts and engravings and rashy areas that appear on me for seemingly no reason:

In the past couple of years my skin has become very . . . expressive.  To the point of being really inexplicably and sometimes unbearably itchy and rashy and/or just freaking out when hot water touches it (not itchy or painful, just looks like I’ve been scratched and/or rubbed in places I can’t even REACH to have accidentally sandpapered myself or scraped nails across my skin).

I’ve eliminated some of the possible triggers, but have wasted a neurotic amount of time googling stuff like dermatographic urticaria. I think it’s like a mild version of that, so unfortunately I don’t have that exciting ability to make myself look scarified with lettering just by gently writing words across my body, but the way I look sometimes reminds me of Michelle Remembers, and how the trauma of satanic ritual abuse made her body recall these events years later with physical manifestations, such as clearly(!) visible welts in the shape of forked devil tails on her skin or whatever.

I read that book on a field trip to the Seattle Public Library that our English teacher took us on in high school, hoping to expand our small-town horizons. Obviously he did not succeed in my case, since I was magically drawn STRAIGHT to this sensational and informative book (and a homeless dude with a porn magazine “hidden” in the center of a more respectable book). I have no idea what we were really there for, but maybe I should make up some stories about some repressed memories that my body is trying to tell me about.

Like maybe I was kidnapped as a child and held for a year by a bizarre, EXTREMELY WEALTHY couple who gave me a whole closet full of tutus in every color imaginable and let me SLEEP in them.

Baby blue, lilac, bubblegum pink, fuschia, soft pastel princess pink. White satin with rhinestones, matte white, white satin WITHOUT rhinestones. Emerald green with sparkly green beads and glossy black bows.

After so many days, weeks and months of wearing and lying upon flipped-up tulle skirts and shiny, scratchy little sequins, it did in fact irritate my skin. That’s why I hate musicals so much but somehow know all their words. You should have seen me in Safeway last night when Whatever Lola Wants came on . . . I immediately started sashaying and singing along. And don’t think I didn’t also know the words to that Phantom of the Opera number that came on right afterwards. It hurts me, but I can’t stop myself.

Someday my abductors’ names will appear in a wedding invitation font on my back and I’ll be able to find and blackmail them into paying me large sums of money for not sending those tutus along when they returned me to my parents. All because I cried that one time at the pageant and ripped off one of my false eyelashes. Of course I’ve repressed these memories, but my body will never forget the sensation of 24/7 tulle.

*****

Here’s an example (also from today) of the more irritating itchy belly-rash I get:

Last week I got it on my left forearm. Just as a way of saying, “I couldn’t possibly be more localized and seemingly random!”

It’s fucking bullshit, or maybe not always because a lot of times it happens when my body gets really hot from excitement. Not sexual excitement, but emotional: frustration, agitation, anxiety, stress, over-enthusiasm, manic thinking, etc. And maybe from eating too much carbs and simple sugars. I don’t really fucking know. But I should stop fantasizing about a closet full of tutus and passing out with cake batter all over my face because it’s really getting me wound up.

What’s a smile turned upside down? Something much jollier than a frown, I think!

Just finished paying the bills, balancing the checkbook, assessing money stuff . . . thinking we’re doing all right. January was an expensive month (like, thousands of dollars more than what we budgeted), but we survived it. We stayed warm, ate well and I feel optimistic about February and very focused.

Thank you to everybody who supports us (currently or in the past or will again in the future) as members to our sites, camshow customers, and/or contributing donations, gifts, kind words, or telling other people online about us. You help make our lives dreamy and affirm my excitement over what we’ll be able to do with ourselves and our porn sites next year if we keep our noses to the grindstone in 2012.

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Links to check out:

• this sexy post from Delia about how my feet excite her (including pics of my toes and soles)
• Lightning Allie’s super-interesting post about how being right feels nice, but being wrong is better (I hope some other people comment so as to distract from the long-winded self-centered comments I left)
• pictures of Rugaru and his friends; I hate talking on the phone so I’m really glad I can see a little of what he’s up to on his blog. He’s new to blogging and twitter and stuff so if you have feedback or tips (don’t leave me in charge of showing him all the ropes!) or just some time to let him know you’re checking out where he’s at & going (if indeed you are/want to), I think he would like that.
• I deleted, added, and fixed links to some of the blogs in my sidebar. Still seems insufficient exposure to lots of our friends (and I know I’m probably missing a lot of people) but anyhoo. I really love a lot of those people!

Picture Delia just took of me drying my hair inside the cabin while she stood outside the cabin door looking in:

Might bring back fond memories for someone. And/or be a foretaste of more hair dryer pics to come with someone else. I’ll say no more. They’re almost like inside jokes. Except not really “jokes”.

Thank you, Delia, for interrupting your camming to come outside and do this for me! I tried to take some pictures myself using the self-timer and my little camera-phone tripod setup, but they were utterly worthless relative to the effort and headache I was putting into it. Well, even NOT relative to that.

*****

I haven’t been spending  much time over the past year or so surfing, reading blogs, “researching” things online, etc. But today I did a little of that. It was interesting. But I have nothing to show for it now except a great reminder that now is not the time in my life to get all up in arms and “informed” about important things. More important is just starting my day out on the right foot, working efficiently, and taking care of myself with time and energy left over to be with Delia. There are some goals I want to meet by the time I turn 40 and that’s barely over a year away. And then maybe I’ll do important things. Or just have more time to fuck lots of people. Or just have more time to fuck Delia lots!

Going to get into bed now and start out better tomorrow.

Just so you don’t feel TOO sorry for me, I *do* have garden gloves with rubber-coated fingers and palms:

Don’t worry about my silly complaints about the dearth of heavy-duty work gloves in tiny-hand sizes, because I don’t *actually* need them since I don’t really do any heavy-duty work. My fingers suffered nary a prick the past couple of days.

Sigh.

There was a 100% chance of rain today. Where I grew up that would mean rain ALL DAY. But here it means “it will be pretty cloudy today and at some point a soft spatter might fall down on you”. Both of these places are near Seattle. But so different from Seattle. And each other.

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I love this yard. I love being in it . . . being lost in it . . . becoming invisible to myself outside. That’s one of the very best feelings in the world.

I know very very little about gardening. And I’m very very slow at it, and most yard work in general. I’m not efficient. That’s not the point. Instead I’m very slow. Some of my movements are quick, but overall the progress I make (if any) is SLOW.

I look at the shapes and colors of things. I do a little something. Then I stop and look at the way what I did changed the shapes and colors of things. I walk around and look at it from different angles. I do a little something else. I smell some stuff. I pick  some things up. I put some things down. I move some stuff around.

Pull a little. Claw a little. Touch and smell and breathe a little. Tilt my head slightly. Dig a little. Turn to find the bird.

No, I’m not stoned. But doing these things, alone, without people-words, has exactly the profoundly calming effect I sometimes seek from drugs. Everything is exquisite. Thousands of small spaces invite me in. I’m fucking intrigued by this microcosm and that.

*****

I want this to be a significant part of my future . . . in all of the weeks I have left to live. I’m scared that I’ll ruin it if we ever have the time and resources to make it perfect, so I tried to promise myself out loud to Delia that we would never ever do that: have a boring perfect garden where the only thing left to do was maintain order. Delia will not let that happen.

One secret might be to always have big trees . . . big overgrowing things that make everything change every year.

Another secret might be to keep being really really really slow.

*****

The cool thing about this particular yard is that they carefully landscaped it when they built the house, like, fifteen years ago or whatever. Not like housing-development-landscaped, but with islands of native stuff like salal and a few shapes with perennials. And in maybe the ten years past a parade of renters has been through it so it’s grown out of its baby plans and gotten a little crazy in places. But not unmanageably so. Like the fire ring can’t still be where a fire is because the tree closest to it has grown to where its arms are almost reaching out over it. And you should try not to set the fucking trees on fire. That kind of thing.

So there are all of these little nooks where we could do something fairly cheap and simple and turn it into fucking storybook-charming magical. Like for photo shoots and stuff!  But not in a super-gross way. I know, I know . . . not everybody’s cup of tea. Whatever . . . I’m getting off track. I don’t really have to make anything look noticeably different, just do enough to where I’m out of my own head. Like just . . . put some shit into piles and stuff.

The point is that it’s perfect for a garden-novice like me to putter around and make a few sweet things happen without being totally overwhelming. And if any real work needs to be done, Delia knows how to use six hours to completely transform a landscape problem or crazy-ass weed-patch into THERE YOU GO ALL DONE.

A nude demonstration this morning under a grey sky of the fun I had yesterday under a blue sky:

I did some clean-up in the yard, like cutting down and pulling out blackberry and blackcap vines. I was surprised how sore my muscles got from this activity; my arms and shoulder and chest feel like I got in a real workout, partly because of the stretching up high and far away and deep down, but probably mostly because our loppers are rusty as are most of our garden tools. Neither this house nor the last one we lived in has a garage or much storage space and we haven’t wasted money on one of those plastic yard closets or storage lockers, so after years of being wrapped in tarps outside or just left out, they’re pretty fucked up. We can still use them, but it’s harder. Hence the extra-sore muscles. I’m not complaining though because it’s fun free exercise.

I actually feel kind of bad about cutting down so much of the blackcaps – they’re yummy, they attract birds, they’re not as invasive as the blackberries – but they distract from the other plants and we’re trying to prepare to use the yard as much as possible for shooting. And they reach out and grab your ankles and pants when you’re just trying to walk by them.

They don’t seem to make protective leather work gloves in a size small enough for my hands, so I often use the loppers to hold onto the vines and try to pull them out and move them to the discard pile. I still managed to scratch my face with thorns, though.

I also did some other stuff around the yard, like picking up limbs and debris that blew off trees during our stormy weather. I piled some of the branches up in places where I want the grass to die down.

I also stepped in one of the neighbor’s dog’s shit piles IN OUR YARD. RIGHT ON MY FUCKING PATH!!

I thought I’d located (and photographed) all of them after I made a tiny misstep, but then I wound up with a total stinky shoe-ruiner, like a wet cheap-dog-food messy pile my foot found that squished up on the side of my shoe and almost got into my velcro!

Yes, I have shoes that utilize velcro!

I decided to not be TOO mad about it, as it provided me relief that this neighbor and I are now fully fucking EVEN if she was bothered by me not-on-purpose flashing her or by all of the noisy sex H. Rugaru and I had when he was here. Okay, I was still “too” mad about it, as I scowled for at least forty-five minutes and even crossed the street to make a bizarre display of myself trying to wipe my shoe off, publicly swearing and muttering. Made even more bizarre by the fact that nobody else was actually outside to witness me sliding and stomping and dragging my contaminated limb around.

As long as we live in a society where polluting groundwater and other people’s private property with feces is viewed as friendly and the best way to show our love of animals, I’m going to feel free to grunt and moan and holler in the middle of the night and run around naked like a bozo during the day. SO THERE!

Also! If the reward for adulthood is having to tie and untie and tie and untie shoelaces, then we simply don’t deserve technology!!

Hello birds and morning sunshine!! Here’s my fucking whisker biscuit!! Yeah, I just woke up in this picture:

Wearing pink nighty, flashing my BUSH, being silly in the backyard!

I tried to take some pics and vids of the birds with my phone, but they didn’t turn out good enough. I’m thrilled about the sunshine and blue skies and bird activity, though!

The blue sky this morning touching our roof

Delia took some great pictures of me yesterday and last night, plus a wet pink video that made her panties damp with precum. I had no idea she was that excited until she showed me . . . it gave me faith that all the work was worth it.

After that she gave me a foot massage, then I rubbed her big hard cock through her panties. Then I sucked it. And then she was so so so so so excited that it made ME so so so so so so excited and we both came fast.

Then we went to the store for cookie dough, but on the way we saw a HUGE FUCKING ORANGE CRESCENT MOON sitting on top of a road leading a different direction, so we whipped around and tried to catch up to it. It looked like we’d be able to drive a couple of miles and be right under it, like it wasn’t the moon at all, but a much-closer giant sphere being lit up by men from here on Earth that you could almost reach up and touch.

It was super windy last night! We could barely sleep because it was SO LOUD and big branches and sticks and stuff were falling onto our roof. Here I am naked, wearing glasses, playing with one of the fallen tree-pieces, enjoying the ABSOLUTELY FUCKING AWESOME winter sunshine:

Much bigger than a fig leaf, yet provides less coverage:

Backyard warrior planting my rustic spear-flag in the ground with menacing expression:

I kind of want to go racing around the neighborhood like that, running into people’s yards and squatting down in territorial poses, squirting tiny blasts of pee on people’s tires.